These days when I'm on my own,
thoughts about death and dying elude me.
They seem to have dried up, like all the tears
I should be shedding for myself.
A veritable torrent of tears.
They've dried up too; the most I can muster
is moisture in an eye when I hear
something especially poignant:
The BBC recorded a nightingale in a Sussex wood;
the peon of joy rang out
but it was 1942
against the non-stop background of British bombers
droning their way, at their own risk,
to annihilate German cities
and civilians. Worth a tear!
Sometimes, I feel like Shakespeare's Macduff
with my hat pulled down over my eyes.
“No”, you say; “he was told to give sorrow words”.
But what have all these book of poetry been
if not to give sorrow words!
“No”, I disagree. Theres been an age old
distinction between telling and showing.
I have no trouble with telling;
showing is a different story.
Perhaps it all comes from living on my own
for so many years; no one to get
irritated at, vent spleen upon,
share joy and grief. Anyway,
I am now 74, too late to change.
Besides, I'd rather share yesterday's miracle
when three monarchs emerged on one day.
One sat on my hand for 30 minutes
occasionally opening and shutting it's wings.
Transformation, of what a friend's toddler
calls 'catybillars', which has more
significance for the world than any
account of my pain and loss.